9/10: One Off for Color
I did not want to go, but I was being pushed. There was no room in this town for me. When I got there I was already doomed. Guilty. Blamed. I arrived culpable of some very first crime and all those thereafter; I was shamefaced over some ancient violation. I took a breath, mea culpa, held it, mea culpua, took another, mea maxima culpa. Over and over. Soon I would have to do the same out there, with them, with real lungs and a remorse I hope I would one day understand.
When I got there, I was already competing, getting a score, and I hoped I was the right color or my score would go too low. Once I got there, I realized I had already started to die from the cold. How can one threshold be so existential? I fretted over who would I meet? I said, "Who will I go off with?" "How will I breathe?" "Will I ever bathe in warm waters again?" "Will I ever again be swathed in muffled tones?"
I knew that when I got there I was already doomed. It was a message hard-wired. I denied the message. I did not want to go, but I was being pushed. No room at the inn. I left my comfortable world and entered theirs. Everyone was staring at me. With their blinding, bright colors and festive deafening shouts. With their satisfaction--even laughter and celebration--in watching me cry out.
I agonized, because they must be monsters.
There was the door. Was it a one-way vestibule? Not yet! I wasn't ready. I hung on, desperately clutching my lifeline, hoping I could use it to pull myself back in. But it was too short, and I knew if I didn't go out to them after such a rude invitation, they would certainly come in and get me. I owed them an RSVP. They would rip me from my lifeline, even cut it, and then I would be on my own.
Landing on the planet Earth for the first time, I was an alien without a name, and then they named me. Then I had to go with these monsters, with the guilt, with the shame, in futile hope of consolation, renewal, and absolution. But absolution is only what you make of it. For every misdeed, there's another to take its place, isn't there? What would I replace mine with? I would certainly be angry.
I was all aligned with my world that suited me fine, but they came and got me. It was all so methodical that they surely had done this before, and many times. And I suppose they would not be quitting anytime soon. No, they had this down. The others who followed me would be just as shamed and unprepared. Perhaps I will meet them soon. What will we talk about? Will we even care about what happened? How we were snacthed? Captured? Taken for hostage with a ransom or air? Cast out to gnash our teeth and sweat our brows, supercilious? Will we even remember?
The price: the difference between innocence and accomplishment was doing something with my life. When I was innocent, I was inert, stagnant. Once I got on with my life, I was dying and would forever be guilty. I had no special protection from that. Who can hope to survive that?
Hope. Will it be worth the price of admission? Deeds and achievements and crimes accrue the moment I arrived here, announced, nameless, and helpless, ready to begin my tally of life. Named. Judged.
And I would again be scored.